40 WILD FLOWERS. 
What next ? A tuft of evening primroses, 
O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes; 
O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, 
But that’t is ever startled by the leap 
Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting 
Of divers moths, that aye their rest are quitting; 
Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim 
Coming into the blue with all her light. 
O Maker of sweot poets! dear delight 
I Of this fair world and all its gentle livers; 
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, 
Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, 
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, 
Lover of loneliness, and wandering, 
I Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! 
Thee must I praise above all other glories 
That smile us on to tell delightful stories. 
For what has made the sage or poet write 
But the fair paradise of Nature’s light? 
In the calm grandeur of a sober line,- 
We see the waving of the mountain pine; 
